


technoblade never dies, but god, life is out to get him

by illdobetter



Category: Minecraft - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF, mcyt
Genre: Found Family, Gen, Trust Issues, no ships, technoblade is an unfortunate soul, to be added - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:13:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26977153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illdobetter/pseuds/illdobetter
Summary: technoblade, a piglin hybrid in a prejudiced, bigoted world is left to his own devices, a dime, and a sword after his home, a small, old shed caves into its self during a thunderstorm. wonderful, considering the fact that he had been rejected just moments ago. never say things that can’t get worse, kids. never allow the universe to prove you wrong.———————cross posted to wattpadlaps-lock on purpose
Relationships: Dave | Technoblade & Phil Watson, Dave | Technoblade & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Dave | Technoblade & TommyInnit, Dave | Technoblade & Wilbur Soot, Dave | Technoblade & Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit, Dave | Technoblade & Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Toby Smith | Tubbo & Phil Watson, Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Toby Smith | Tubbo & Wilbur Soot, TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 11
Kudos: 321





	1. yikes.

technoblade had once said "you know, it takes a lot to move me," and boy, he deeply regrets it. as he stands here, dripping wet in the middle of a storm, looking at the remains of his shitty shed he had rented out-the roof had caved in, the walls crumbling and following on with it. every single one of his items were dripping wet, not quite retrievable from the rubble. he holds supermarket flowers tightly in his palm, his trembling hands hardly registering the plastic crunch as his grip tightens mercilessly on the stems, frowning. 

his feet move him towards the creaking door frame, stepping on the fallen door and ducking under the beams of the roof. without much thought, he pulls the red cloak from the coat hanger, along with his sharpest sword and the crown he was left with as a child. 

great. 

he sighs, heavily, turning on his heel into the other direction. jobless, loveless and now? homeless. damn storms. he tosses the plastic in the trash, throwing the flowers into the grass beside the street. he groans, rubbing his eyes. his cloak was heavy, soaked with rain water, but he simply wraps it around his shoulders, clasping the chains that secure it. he places his crown on his head, and without much enthusiasm, he swings his sword up, gently setting it on his left shoulder. what now? 

he frowns, wondering if his shitty, barely working flip phone is going to survive the water soaked into his clothes. probably not. technoblade simply walks into an alley, trying to find a bit of shelter, anything-mobs, thankfully, didn't venture in the alleys, mostly hanging around the outskirts and sewers. usually he'd just carry around a pocket knife, but apparently, the sword would do. it's a shame, how his home seemed to collapse right after he spent all his money on rent and flowers. he's got what, a dime to his name? he doesn't even bother to sift through his small, deceased home. damn thing was flooded, therefore everything wouldn't quite work as well as they would before. he's glad he at least dressed up for what was supposed to be a date. he doesn't look like a hobo. 

he hangs his head, taking his sweet time as he navigates the dark alleys, motivation lost about halfway through the third one as he stops in his place, footsteps abruptly halting. he falls against the wall after he sets his sword against it, crumpling lifelessly before placing the diamond in his lap, keeping a firm grip on the handle. he's a light sleeper-people can barely breathe near him without waking him up. it must be the lingering piglin genes, you know, the ones that make his voice ridiculously deep, gives him tusks and a terrible accent due to lack of proper teaching of english. it doesn't take him long to drift to sleep in his cold, wet clothes, the rain hitting his head roughly, long, thick pink hair holding the water instead of allowing it to soak further into his outfit. 

yikes.


	2. women are intimidating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> new beginnings ig  
> also i dont feel like copy pasting the edited version from wattpad so here, have a slightly shittier version

shivering, shuddering breaths fill the alleyway, quiet, yet heavy in a way that screams a cry for help. he drifts in and out of consciousness as the sun, careful and calculated, peeks through the two buildings, attacking technoblade as his eyes flutter open. immediately, he groans, pushing himself up from the grimy floor and swaying heavily, not quite expecting the extra weight of the still-wet cloak around his shoulders. 

oh dear god, he feels disgusting. his entire body seems to be damp or still soaking wet, dirtied by the grimy, trash littered alley floor. he's glad he's not dead—plenty of people pass through these. maybe the sword was enough warning. he doesn't even go back the way he's come, simply exiting the alley and biting back a sigh as the sun forcibly shines it's way through his fingers as he raises his hand, desperate to protect his sensitive eyesight. the sun reflects off of the concrete, puddles littering the uneven roads. where would he go?

deeper into town doesn't seem to be the way to go. he could easily pickpocket there, but he'd rather not fall back on his past. besides, he wouldn't be viewed as trustworthy with the guard further east. they recognized his skill with a sword and hunger for life and survival, allowing him to join at the ripe age of thirteen. they gave him a place to stay when nowhere would, and for that, he's forever in debt. he doesn't.. he doesn't want to bother them again though. he doesn't want to take up space in the dorms, space that could be used for the other promising children in need of a home, children who needed it more than he did himself. 

he strolls down the street, frowning as he realizes he's probably going to have to risk cutting the sash around his waist to hold the sword. he looks rather intimidating, with one perched on his shoulder. he pulls himself off to the side, slipping the blade under the deep, maroon fabric and returning to the road, pulling the cloak further around his shoulders and wishing it had a hood. it's already enough to be entirely fucking homeless and soaking, but to openly show he was a hybrid? foolish. he's around the north side of town, he realizes, groaning internally. 

this was fine. really, it was. at least he has a good cloak and a.. he grabs the shitty flip phone from his pocket, pressing the power button insistently and groaning as it refuses to power on.

at least he'd have some adventure in his life? sure, asking his not-into-hybrids crush out was enough-holy fuck, he had completely forgotten about that. he frowns. don't dwell on it, he reminds himself, knowing he'd probably have to delay his walk to cry in an alley. the aching, familiar sense of heartbreak and forced emotional numbness washes over him. this was a big ass town, he realizes, remembering he had a taxi to even get here, and that took.. hours, he's pretty sure. he's sort of forgotten. it's hardly a town-would city suffice? he's never thought of it as-enough. 

he wonders if he's going the right way, shrugging it off. if he's not, he can just go to another point on the map. it's not like he's got anything waiting for him. his stomach grumbles, and he suddenly wishes he hadn't allowed himself to gorge on snacks and food for most of the day. all of it went towards his muscular body, yes, but it gave his stomach the impression that he'd always have this much food. he can do this, he thinks, frowning deeply. he doesn't run, he doesn't jog, he doesn't even speedwalk. it's less tiring, and less effort equals less energy spent. he takes a deep breath, wincing at the scent of sweet, freshly baked goods. 

god really said he had it too fortunate, didn't he? usually, he would've politely asked for a chocolate chip cookie, but no, no, of course not. how much money did he actually have? he thrusts his hands into his pockets, grimacing. "fuck," 

how funny, he was right. he picks the dime out of his pocket and watching the dirtied, rusted metal gleam in the light. he jams it back into his pocket. he could probably hitchhike. probably. he couldn't count it as a proper good way of travelling, with his visage and all. he could get away with doing that further in the outskirts, though. he turns sharply to the left, crossing the streets that cut through the paths of houses and making sure this one was facing the right direction before sticking a thumb out and patiently setting his sights on the road before him. cars pass, just as expected, but it doesn't seem to phase him, body language relaxed as the sun starts to seep into his clothes, replacing the rain little by little. he had to be sitting there for an hour, because his cloak was simply damp instead of soaking when someone finally pulls to the side of the road. he quickly walks up to the driver's side door, "where 're ya goin'?" he asks, before they can. 

"to the farm up west." he frowns, momentarily, before pausing. maybe west was a good idea. the woman seemed nice enough, with her mug of steaming coffee and.. was that a dog in the back? 

"may i?" techno asks, wincing at the sound of his voice. it's so.. deep, gravelly, monotone-people can't tell what he's thinking, and with the accent, sometimes people can barely understand him. they nod, and he's quickly moving to the passengers side, cracking the door open and sitting politely, muttering an apology about his cloak. he pulls the seatbelt over his chest, curiously looking at the dog in one of the mirrors. 

"that's shelby," the woman offers, "i'm chelsea," great, not a name he's going to remember. 

"technoblade. call me techno," he says, hesitantly pressing the seat warming option on his seat, turning it on and wincing as chelsea laughs, straight from her chest. he's a little worried for his safety-hopefully he isn't too funny. she seems to swerve while she laughs. 

"technoblade?" she asks, cracking up and sneaking a peek at the man. this man has got to be lying. "your parents named you technoblade?" chelsea giggles, shoulders bouncing as she struggles to keep it together—the fact that he wasn't fully human didn't seem to be a problem. "you're kidding."

"nah, 'm not. serves as both a first name and a last name, cause for whatever reason, my actual last name is off record. probably cause they don't want my dad's piglin fuckin' be linked to 'im." he sounds as deadpan as possible, not quite realising his words could let another laugh erupt. 

christ, this woman laughed loudly. it's sharp, and a little harsh on the ears, but it's kind of endearing. "have-" she giggles, "have you had breakfast?" 

eyes fall on the clock in the car, and he shakes his head, glad to know that it's still morning. "don' eat breakfast." he admits, glad his poverty could be hidden by preferences in meal times. 

"would you want to grab some coffee?" chelsea offers, and immediately techno shakes his head. 

"nah, barely know ya'." the joke was a way to avoid the responsibility of paying for the coffee. after all, a dime isn't the most. he'd be better off spending it on some bubble gum. doesn't that stop hunger? sometimes he misses the luxury of having a mentor with a phone that actually works. he could've easily googled it by now. 

"please," she begs, laughing sweetly, "spare a woman, i'm incredibly giggly." having completely forgotten (or, just changing the subject) about the coffee, she rambles on about something techno isn't very familiar with. he ends up blocking her out and instead getting nice and cozy in the warm, welcoming seat. the warmth was incredibly comforting, and if he hadn't just slept his way through the storm, he would've fallen right back into the unconscious. rather than do that, he simply forced himself to keep his eyes open, to the point where they began to sting. it's best to stay alert in a stranger's car. 

"how far are we goin'?" he blurts, the question weighing heavily on his mind. his gaze is glued to the street before them, and the surroundings look incredibly dull, like the rain had taken all color and happiness with it, spilling down into a now spectacularly colorful storm drain. his hair falls in front of his eyes, but he doesn't move to brush it to the side. 

the woman pauses mid rant, "the farm, i already told you, didn't i?" he flinches at her tone, throat going dry as he nods, slowly, as if she had been scolding him. 

"ya', ye did. go on," techno blandly says, apathetic as he wonders what would be in store for him. likely a lot of begging and crying for help, stuck in the center of a field, scrambling away from zombies. wincing at the memory, he tries to turn his worries into sourly coated hope. he despises winter. it only makes him remember purpling fingertips and blue lips, his thundering heartbeat reminding him much like a ballroom dance. he refuses to think about how he begged for the rhythm to cease, for the dancers to stop howling and cheering as they gracefully dance through the halls, giggling through conversations over expensive champagne. wincing as the song on the radio suddenly changes into something more.. loud, he leans further up against the window of the beat up van. his breath fogs up the muddied window, each bump in the road causing his skull to rattle against said glass, his tusks pressing heavily against the surface. 

will he go back to screaming and crying in the rain? will he go back to telling the lake his problems? will he go back to skipping meals? he's never quite realized how much his body had grown once he had proper nutrition. he went from a pathetic 5'7" to a towering 6'2", 6'3" if you rounded up the centimeters. his hands tremble in his lap, and he tucks them between his thighs, huffing. the roads are near empty as they take few turns, and he finds himself spacing out. 

the next time he takes in their surroundings, they're at a barn, one that seems to visibly creak at every barely-there breeze, one that's paint is chipping and begging to clint on to the rain-soaked wood, holding so much history and heartbreak that it seems to call out into the dirty fields that run on for miles. momentarily, he's on guard, realizing that he's fallen asleep—the woman had left the car, it seems, leaving him alone in the slightly warm vehicle. he hesitates as he places his hand on the cool, metal handle, cracking the door open and leaping out of the car swiftly, not wanting the warm atmosphere held within the tin-can to disappear. he shivers, slightly, pulling his cloak around his body forcefully, checking his head for the crown typically perched on top of it. swords there too—he hadn't been robbed. he sways heavily on his feet, squinting at the evening sun. how long had he been out? he usually couldn't sleep after-no bother. he was grateful, for the opportunity to sleep. he carefully treads towards the barn, wincing at the sound of animals, tightly packed. industrial farming sucks ass. eyes fall on a man in his fifties, and he's dashing up to get his attention.

"ah..... hallo? do ya need someone to work for you? ive got no place to stay and will do.. almost everything," he hesitantly says, voice deeper due to the sleep that hangs from it like vines. 

the salt-and-pepper haired man eyes him up, almost as if he was trying to determine if he could beat techno in a fight. "always needin' help around here. how's farmin' potatoes sound, pig-boy?"


End file.
